This month I’ve been focusing on the universally iconic figure of the dragon. (See my last two posts: Happy Dragon of Wales and The Dragon and the Heroine’s Journey.) So here’s the third and final musing. Fittingly, today’s offering is about the mythical dragon of China on the actual date of the Chinese Year of the Dragon.

In Asia, the year of the dragon is cause for great celebration, for the dragon represents exuberant, dynamic creativity, as well as potent powers including control over water. And it’s a symbol of strength and good luck. In energy-flow terms, the dragon is yang, with its counterpart being the yin Phoenix. The dragon symbol often represents the Emperor, while the Phoenix represents the Empress. Historically, coil-shaped jade badges have been excavated and dated as early as 4700 BC. And in 300 BC a record documents the discovery of dinosaur or “dragon” bones, and the Chinese word for dinosaur is translated as “terrible dragon.”

There are interesting distinctions between the Occidental and Oriental version of the dragon. In the West, the dragon has wings and breaths fire. In the East, the dragon is serpentine and without wings, but with multiple sets of feet that have particular significance in an elaborate hierarchy of metaphor. Where in the West, we tend to think of the red dragon as a symbol of evil, something to be defeated, in the East, people celebrate the red dragon’s power, embracing its qualities as useful and practical. And while the West’s dragon manifests aggression, the East’s symbolizes culture and sophistication.

One quality shared by both Eastern and Western dragons is their magical capabilities. According to story and legend, the Chinese dragon can shape-shift, acquiring the forms of other animals, or humans, and of water in its many iterations. Perhaps one of the most potent gift of this Asian icon is its ability to make things appear.

So, in this new year of the dragon, how will we go about manifesting that which we desire in our lives? If we stick to logic, we’ll have goals, charts, schedules, plans, strategies, logistics, and all the meetings and technologies needed to enact everything we hope to achieve. This is certainly the “head” approach, and it has great validity. We tend to trust this approach with its quantifiable results. We can take these results “to the bank,” advertise our “proven reliability,” and back up each venture with a solidly logical thesis.

But what about that which is illogical? A dragon that doesn’t actually exist, yet is invoked as a symbol of power isn’t logical. Yet as a metaphor, it helps us access the inexplicable, reminding us to make room in our lives for that which we cannot predict. Since I grew up in Asia, I have some experience with this dragon. At age nine, while walking to class across the campus of the American School in Japan, I was interrupted by a request to come directly to the Principal’s office. At that moment, this seemed as terrifying as a dragon rearing its head right in front of me. Instead, however, it turned out that a scout from NHK television had seem me in a school play, and was inviting me to audition for a new series. I got the part, and for the next few years performed in an English-language drama designed to assist Japanese students. It was an honor to work with experienced professionals, a thrill to reach so many fellow students from another culture, and the beginning of a television career.

It was also an element of magic. I didn’t actually do anything to make that audition happen. I just pursued what I loved and enjoyed that potent child-wonder that knows special things can and do occur. It’s the kind of heart-knowledge that turns out to be so valuable in the grown-up world. It’s what makes us pursue unusual ideas, and ask ourselves, “why not?” It’s the quality that made J.K. Rowling write down her unlikely story idea (think Harry Potter); that made Buckminster Fuller think outside the square and instead use the triangle as his building block (think geodesic dome); and that made me create a radio drama when everyone told me radio drama had been over and done for decades (think Milford-Haven USA). This year, let’s use our heads to create fantastic plans; then let’s open our hearts to see what kind of magic the dragon will bring.

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In this new Year of the Dragon, here’s my second musing on this mythological figure that has so many versions in different cultures. This time I honor my own ancestral beast, the happy dragon of Wales. I say “happy” because to me the beautifully exuberant creature emblazoned on the flag of Wales represents courage and energy, and an unstoppable drive to achieve the goal.

One of the qualities of this dragon is surely his magic—he breaths fire, he flies through the air, he journeys through time. So perhaps this sense of magic is one of the things we need to invoke when we have a goal in mind. Another of its qualities is action—this is not a dragon at rest, but “passant” or traveling. He’s on the move, and this is another thing we must invoke to achieve our goals.

British lore has it that the red dragon at length defeated a white dragon, symbolizing the victory of the Welsh people over the Saxons. The red dragon is also a prophecy of the coming of King Arthur, whose father was Uther Pendragon, or “Chief Dragon.” The red dragon became part of Henry VII’s flag for the house of Tudor, and centuries later in 1953 Henry’s Red Dragon badge received a circular motto: “Y Ddraig Goch Ddyry Cychwyn” or “The Red Dragon Inspires Action.”

The dragon must have been with me when I created my fictitious town of Milford-Haven. I’d written numerous scripts for television, several of which were rejected, but later copied and produced. (The dragon wasn’t happy about that, and neither was I.) So I took action. I realized how much I loved radio drama. Not only was it a vibrant, creative medium; it could be produced for a smaller budget, and well-known actors could squeeze in their performances between longer commitments. When a summer of performing in the play Sea Marks in the coastal town of Cambria sparked my love affair with California’s Central Coast, the seeds of the story were sewn. By the way, I played a character from Wales. The dragon must’ve been at work even then. I wrote the scripts. Amazing actors said yes to joining the cast. I found the perfect studio, engineer, foley artist, and composers. The show became a hit locally. And then, something inexplicably extraordinary happened. The BBC heard about the show, and it became the first American radio serial ever broadcast on this renowned network.

Indeed, the journey of Milford-Haven is nothing less than magical. The first time I became aware of the the red dragon, it was because the flag of Wales was presented to me on a most remarkable trip. Milford-Haven U.S.A. had just become a hit on BBC radio with over 4 million listeners. The original town of Milford Haven, on the west coast of Wales, has a long, rich history of its own. It had first come to my attention when I performed in Shakespeare’s Cymbelline. I played the heroine Imogen who receives a letter from her beloved asking her to “meet me in Cambria, in Milford Haven.” Since my fictitious town was based loosely upon the California town of Cambria (itself, named for Wales), I knew I’d found the perfect name for my radio show.

What I didn’t know was that the original town was engaged at that moment in a campaign to attract tourism. By creating a successful radio program I was helping them. In return, the town fathers and mothers invited me for a visit filled with magic. On the first day, I was given a parade down Main Street—a charming lane of appealing shops that uncannily resembled my fictitious one. On the second evening, I was given a reception in the equivalent of their Town Hall—an occasion filled with ceremony and history. I walked under crossed swords; I was rung into the room by a gentleman in a powdered wig; I was presented with the keys to the city. Fortunately, I’d had a silver tray engraved—from Milford-Haven to Milford Haven—so I had something to give these generous people!

This amazing journey, and the debut of Milford-Haven U.S.A., happened in 1992. So for me, the dragon’s reappearing in 2012 is the signal to celebrate twenty years of Milford-Haven—its cast and crew, its musicians and sound effects wizards, its artists and writing, and of course its further telling in the new novels. Perhaps when my own ancestors left Wales, a baby dragon went with them. And when it grew up, it breathed fire on my kindling imagination, inspiring me to write a story that would bring us both back to Wales on bright red wings.

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Since this is the Year of the Dragon, I’ve been doing some meditating on this iconic figure. Actually, the lore is so rich, I’ll be writing about it three times this month, beginning today.

The Hero’s Journey always has a specific goal, and a major obstacle: a dragon to be slain. In most Occidental tales, the dragon is quite literal: a fire-breathing reptile with towering strength, powerful wings and fearsome teeth ready to devour.

While I was a college student, I was also working as a performer in New York City, where I had the honor to be part of a production at The Open Eye, a theatre owned by Joseph Campbell and his wife Jean Erdman. Jean was a well-known dancer and choreographer. Joseph was the respected author  of The Hero with a Thousand Faces, and later went on to become an iconic figure in his own right as the subject of multiple interview series including those with Bill Moyers for PBS television.

Joseph was the originator of the now universally famous advice to “follow your bliss.” His multi-cultural spiritual and myth studies became foundational to the Star Wars films as a result of George Lucas’s ongoing consults with Campbell. And he was among the most delightful persons in the world. Conversations with him were at once natural and inspiring, comfortable and riveting.

From James Joyce’s Finnegans Wake—a book he loved and also knew intimately because from it Jean created an Obie-winning dance-drama The Coach with the Six Insides—Joseph borrowed the word monomyth, another term for the hero’s journey. What he discerned was a commonality amongst the myths and stories from many cultures, siting the structure and the particular chapters that are its landmarks.

The journey often begins when the hero least expects. Enmeshed in the details of his mundane existence, he (or she) receives a “call to adventure.” Some heros rush forward to gain the prize, which may be nothing more than a vague longing at first. Like Theseus, they vanquish the Minotaur and gain a kingdom, or like Bill Gates they create an empire with apparent ease. Some heros resist the adventure with all their might, and wind up a Jonas in the belly of the whale, an Odysseus, tossed on the seas for many years; or a late bloomer like Julia Child, first published at 50, or Colonel Sanders who created his franchise at age 65. Some refuse the call all together, at which point the adventure turns negative—Lot’s wife, mesmerized by the past, turned into a pillar of salt.

For those who answer the call, something fantastic happens. The universe begins to conspire on the side of the hero or heroine, providing guides, magical helpers, angels, tools, and signs to mark the path—signs that might not make sense to anyone else.

This is a good thing, for the journey is fraught with dangers. Somewhere along the line, there’s always a temptation. (Among the many meanings of my first name, “Mara” is named as the last temptress sent to distract Buddha before he attained Nirvana.) And, of course, inevitably the hero will face his or her own personal dragon, usually when many other challenges have already been met and the goal is at hand.

So what is this dragon? I think it’s fear. Maybe we could say it’s F.E.A.R.—False Evidence Appearing Real. When its component parts are disassembled like a Transformer toy, and the appearition is stripped of substance, what qualities does it really represent? None. It really has no history, no reality, no substance. It’s a “nothing”—a mythical, imaginary non-existence beast—swollen into “something”—an overwhelming fear probably left over from childhood monsters imagined beneath the bed.

So what’s your dragon? Will it take head or heart to slay it? For me, it’ll take both. It’ll take a total commitment to the heroine’s journey. In this year of the dragon, let’s hear the call to adventure and vanquish our fears.

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What kicks off the new year celebrated so avidly around the globe is a gift given by the universe itself—a new orbit. In fact, my character Cornelius Smith and my friend Laurance Doyle —both of whom are astronomers—give this as their annual greeting. “Happy New Orbit!” Makes me smile every time.

Fresh starts . . . a clean slate . . . infinite possibilities. . . . The precious sense that all things are new again is valued throughout the world. Some of us want almost everything to change; some of us probably want a few things to change. And most of us desire a sense of progress so we create a theme or a list to help us establish the landmarks of transformation.

Like most folks, I have my rituals. First, I give my office a deep cleaning. This is when the long-ignored-and-now-mysterious stacks of papers, magazines and file folders are sorted: shredding and recycling here, filing and donating there. Surprising how few “action items” come out of these stacks. Yet some treasures emerge too. Almost nothing goes into landfill, so this is a good planet-project. Second, the new day-planner and notebooks get unsealed and readied for use. Ahh, the fresh pages! From blank sheets to calendar grids, from goal lists to favorite quotes and graphics, these are the special tools that will gradually fill with tasks completed, victories won, and surprises unpredictable. These are the things my head likes to do at the new year’s beginning.

So what does my heart like to do at the start of each new orbit? It wants to go for a walk. And my heart’s favorite walk is along the shore with mountains on one side and ocean on the other. I’ve often asked myself why this particular geography speaks so palpably to my heart. What I’ve come up with so far is that the land and mountains represent that which is formed, solid, and worth climbing toward; the ocean and shoreline represent the vast sea of possibility where it touches my understanding. I don’t do much talking on these walks. I mostly listen. One thing I always hear is the gratitude list, which for 2011 was astounding. Milestones include: first hardcover novel; first Kindle short-story best-seller; second Kindle short-story best-seller; and reaching 17 million reader during my August blog tour.

There are two things I can think of that both head and heart love to do as the year commences. One is to attend the Fire Sacrament service as my husband’s church. On tiny pieces of treated paper, the congregation is invited to write down a word representing something we’d like to get rid of. Then we walk to the front and hold the minuscule sheet over a flame, at which point is instantly combusts and disappears in a tiny puff of smoke. The gorgeously simple and profound ceremony always provides a perfect visualization of something unwanted disappearing into its native nothingness.

The other head-heart activity that always inspires is writing the Milford-Haven Novels. There’s the private side of it: solitude and focus as I listen and hear my characters think and talk, challenge them with fresh circumstances, and interweave their stories. And there’s the public side: dialoguing with readers on www.GoodReads.com and www.Shelfari.com; answering questions at book events; sharing news through my newsletters; replying to comments on this blog.

What’s so exciting about the author-reader connection is that our orbits overlap. So thanks for letting me be part of your orbit this year, and thanks for joining mine. It’s going to be an extraordinary year in Milford-Haven, which truly has an orbit of its own that is meant just for you. So join me and my characters for a happy new orbit. . . in Milford-Haven!

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Much as I adore Christmas, I love Boxing Day almost as much. First, it’s a Christmas-extender, just like the 23rd is—a date I refer to as Christmas-Eve-Eve.

December 26th is Boxing Day with a wonderful tradition of its own. Observed in the U.K., Canada, Australia and New Zealand, it started as a day following Christmas when aristocrats, tasked with the welfare of those who worked on their estates, delivered boxes of food and gifts. In South Africa, the occasion evolved into the renamed Day of Goodwill in 1994, and in Ireland it’s called St. Stephen’s Day. The European tradition of giving gifts and money to those in need dates back to the Middle Ages. In Japan, where I grew up in an international community, the lines blurred as New Year’s approached, traditionally a time of gift-giving and debt-settling.

Whatever its multiple and evolving origins, there just seems to be something magical about a Christmas box. What might it contain? Something old? Something new? Something significant? Something trivial? A thing of beauty or usefulness? A prize long-awaited, or a gift of whimsy impulsively chosen?

Before the holiday, I always feel like a Santa’s elf when I place a gift in a box. The crinkle of the colorful tissue, the snap of the wrapping paper, the twist of the ribbons, the placement of the gift tag . . . all the while I’m grinning and chortling to myself, imagining the fun the recipient will have opening the box. After the holiday, out come the storage boxes, which themselves gradually attain a significance as holders of family memories. Ornaments here . . . lights there . . . stockings in this box, angels in that one. Away they go, carefully wrapped until their shining countenances reappear, a bit wiser with yet another Christmas under their wings. Angels inspire me so much I wrote some holiday short stories, among them Whose Angel Key Ring, still available now for free on your Kindle, or for a small fee on your Nook.

The twinkling lights, the scented pine, the thick red candles, the red velvet pillows, all go into their special containers. For me, the angels are the last to be packed. The cherub regarding the dove alighting on its knee; the golden Gabriel blowing his trumpet; the glinting metallic Angelica presiding from the tree top . . . each has its own message, heard a little more clearly in the silence that seems to engulf the house after the holiday hubbub. The Christmas music begins to fade and the last of the eggnog is consumed. The labeled boxes are placed carefully on their storage shelves.

Christmas is a heart-time, and as the red-gold sun sets on Boxing Day, the head seems to be intruding again with its logic and its timetable. But never fear. Like good emotional investments, the memory-treasures stored only increase in value each year in the magical boxes of Christmas.

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I’ve known for a long time that there’s a connection between women and jewelry. In fact, that’s probably a connection I made at about age three. Was that when I first admired Mommy’s shiny baubles? Hmm. I think by then, I was actually asking for baubles of my own.

One of the earliest pieces to grace my collection was my very first charm bracelet. How I loved its shiny silver trinkets with their magical moving parts! Each time my parents took me someplace special, a new charm was added, until from every single link dangled a treasured memento: the Rockettes kicked up their legs all in a row; five candles poked through a birthday cake with pink enamel icing; a split oval twisted to become a heart. My love of jewelry has continued to evolve through the years, and has circled back to charms, which have themselves evolved. Though the classic dangling style are still to be found, the latest iteration are bead charms—just as much bling and delightful detail, but with a hole through the center which keeps the charms from clanking on keyboards and snagging on sweater.

It seems the love for charms even surfaced in my Christmas story Whose Angel Key Ring which was published as a short e-book last week for Kindle (FREE during the holidays), Nook, and all readers. Check out the cover image. There you’ll see a dangling cherub by artist Mary Helsaple, which is nothing if not charming.

The most important thing about a charm, no matter its style, is the story it tells. When I look at my childhood charm bracelet, it’s more than the shiny silver I enjoy. What comes back to me are my fifth birthday party; that night at Rockefeller Plaza with my parents and later, waking up just enough to feel Daddy carrying me to bed. My new charm bracelet commemorates more recent events—last year’s lighthouse trip with my husband; the amazing weekend I spent with nine close women friends; and now—the first novel in my series.

On the face of things, a piece of jewelry is about decoration. We choose jewelry to enhance an outfit, bring out the lights in our eyes, draw attention to a good feature. But I have yet to ask a woman about a piece of jewelry—especially a really good one—without hearing a story. “My husband bought me this when our second daughter was born.” “I found this on our trip to Rome.” “This was handed down from my grandmother.”

It was this inherent story-connection that inspired me to work with a jeweler to create a charm to coordinate with book one of my series. When my publishers and I were discussing the dingbat—the symbol to appear at the start of each chapter—I thought a seashell would best represent my coastal series. Then I realized that each book in the series should have its own shell. After plunging into seashell research, I discovered the uncannily perfect one for What the Heart Knows: the heart cockle shell. And this beautiful shell—heart-shaped, with beautiful curved ridges—that’s the inspiration for the heart cockle charm.

On Sunday afternoon, what fun it was to watch guests arrive at All That Glitters, a beautiful jewelry store that’s been doing business in Colorado Springs for forty-six years. Owner Cretee Nemmer had transformed her gleaming cases into seaside dioramas: shells rested atop turquoise tool, draped with pearls and aquamarines, abalone and blue tourmalines. Lighthouses rested atop the case that held a special display of slinky silver chains along which had been strung the brand-new silver heart-cockle charm.

Expressions on the guests’ faces reflected eager curiosity, as though each was on a treasure hunt. Why were there books standing here and there on the cases? What was the connection to jewelry? And then they began to put the pieces together. The heart cockle isn’t only a charm; it’s the icon for What the Heart Knows, a symbol used as an ongoing visual from chapter to chapter, with an explanation given in the Colophon, a special page describing the graphical elements of the book.

At the back of the book there’s another special page, titled “Secret Of the Shells.” Remember what happens when you pick up a shell and hold it to your ear? Well, for those who read the Milford-Haven Novels, the literary shells allow you to listen to your heart. For perhaps the most important stories of all in Milford-Haven are those your own heart tells you.

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The holidays richly contain many different kinds of segments. There’s the decorating. Of course there’s the shopping. There’s the cooking. There’s the card-writing. There are outings to visit family or friends. Sometimes there’s travel. Sometimes there are house guests. Whatever the circumstances, there always seem to be elements of excitement and frustration, pressure and relaxation, laughter and sentimentality.

For me, there comes a moment sometime during the holidays when what I long for is the perfect book to read. I prowl the shelves and night stands searching for the perfect volume. If I don’t find it at home, I start searching the bookstore or library shelves—or an e-reader store these days—until the right tale captures my attention.

Once I have the book in hand (downloaded or paper), I choose a spot to get comfy—maybe the living room couch which, during this season, is draped with an especially plush red blanket; maybe the den with its recliner and its cozy fireplace. Then, cup of Christmas-tea sweetened with honey close by, I hunker down for a read that will draw me into the particular sense of wonder and magic, secrets and revelations, remembrance and inspiration that remind me what the soul of the holidays is all about, and that move me forward into my next spiritual step.

This may seem like a tall order, but we’re blessed with several stories that measure up. Top of my list is Charles Dickens’ A Christmas Carol. For most of my life, my dad made a practice of performing it for the family. Some years, we all performed it together either on stage or as a radio broadcast. Then there’s O. Henry’s Gift of the Magi. Three years ago, I spent an early Christmas in New York with a dear friend while we did an author event together. We took ourselves to Pete’s Tavern in Irving Place where the story was written, two authors grinning foolishly at the knowledge a writer we admired had sat right where we were sitting. Richard Paul Evans has made a career of writing holiday stories that touch the heart, starting with his Christmas Box. Debbie Macomber loves Christmas and has written several charming tales including The Perfect Christmas.

One year, I began to hear Christmas stories that hadn’t yet been written, and knew I’d have to start typing them myself. It wasn’t the easiest vacation that year, since the stories wouldn’t leave me alone. But it was very rewarding to dot the final i and cross the ultimate t. This year, my publishers wanted to bring out my first e-book holiday story, and it gets published today.

Whose Angel Key Ring is one of those tales that contains the aforementioned elements: secrets and sentimentality. It also contains expectation and resolution. The experience of writing it was something like peering in the window of Calma, the fictional estate where it’s set. For me, the setting is as tangible as Christmas itself. It’s a special property I first began imagining during many childhood visits to Santa Barbara. During the early 1980s the fictional property evolved as I spent time at Love Songs, a gorgeous enclave of buildings where I recorded the hit song “Sumahama” with Mike Love of the Beach Boys. By the time my radio drama Milford-Haven U.S.A. was on the air, “Calma” was fully developed. Now for the first time—thanks to artist Mary Helsaple’s extraordinary talent—my readers can actually see the charming cottage overlooking the ocean bluff where resides the Calvin family’s trusted retainer—a man who’s part diplomat, all discretion, and the keeper of family secrets large and small. And what is that key ring with its cherub that dangles from his mail box? To find out, you’ll have to cozy up to your Kindle or Nook for a quick download—free during the holidays. Only then will you know . . . whose angel key ring it really is.

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Over the course of this first December weekend, at an opulent gathering of friends, we went around the table answering the question, “what’s the significance of Christmas to you?” We all acknowledged the spiritual import of the holiday, and because this was an international gathering, there was acknowledgment from widely divergent religious paradigms.

But we came back around the table again to touch upon that which we could only identify as the “spirit” of this time of year. For some, this is a time to focus more intently upon family and close friends, to offer the gifts of time and food, to open our homes, be they large or small, to experience something cozy and comforting, something timeless needing to be captured at least to the extent of celebrating it.
One person put it most succinctly by saying this is a time of Love. I have to use the capital letter here, because this is how she meant it: a huge, overflowing of good will, a true sense of caring, an increase of patience and a better space for listening, that which transcends emotion to become pure expression.

For me, this time of year is when the sense of possibility is most tangible. I would almost say possibility is so tangible as to feel magical—a feeling that what seems beyond reach might suddenly appear. That’s how Christmas was for me in childhood—the sudden and magical appearance of Santa, who mysteriously knew what I wanted, and managed to bring it down the chimney just in time for the morning of December 25th, when my sister and I would race down the hallway in our pajamas to gasp at the spectacle of a tree that had appeared over night, with presents gleaming under its branches.

As an adult, I’ve heard some parents disapprove of Santa, saying he’s little more than a fraud perpetrated on children who should in fact be told the truth. This may be true from a head perspective. Taken literally, this is a myth easily disproved. We could always go up to department store Santas and yank on their beards, or point out that not every house has a chimney.

But the heart knows better. It knows without having to be told that there are forces beyond logic at work in the universe, laws of harmony that supersede the apparent discords that tend to ensnare us. This is why I created Milford-Haven as the little town of infinite possibilities. When our footsteps are more sure, when our ears are attuned to raw possibility in its most infinite sense, then we remember what the heart knows—that with Spirit, all things are possible.

For more information on the changes that are taking place with The Milford Haven Novels, please read my newsletter. If you have not subscribed, visit www.MaraPurl.com to have my newsletter sent to your mailbox every month.

There are three things I love about Thanksgiving: the future, the past, and the present.

I think as a child I probably loved Thanksgiving because of the future—it meant Christmas was coming soon! It was also a holiday I anticipated with great joy because it meant we’d go visit Grandma Dorothy. She married my step-grandfather late in life—but just in time for my sister and me to adore her. The house she shared with “Daddy Bob” was a classic New England cottage in Waterbury, Connecticut. Cape-Cod-Blue with white trim, it stood erect despite the steep street that seemed to slice under it. My sister and I would go charging up the front steps to find two eagerly smiling grandparents opening the door to the enticing aromas of roasting turkey and baking pies. The furniture gleamed, the silver shone and the crystal sparkled, but never more brightly that Grandma Dorothy’s smile. While we waited for dinner to be served, we’d escape to the attic, where there were dress-up clothes to play with and empty notebooks I used to fill with stories. After dinner she’d recite, “Pick I up and put me to bed, but don’t bend I.” It was the one day of the year I feared I might actually pop.

Later I came to love Thanksgiving because of the past. The oft-repeated stories of fore-parents and their Native hosts, of sharing food and creating a tradition to mark the beginning of our extraordinary country began to inspire and has never ceased. Even if parts of the tale are apocryphal; even if some take offense; the story contains the seeds of gratitude, multi-culturalism, creativity, shared wealth and so many other qualities that have born good fruit in the future those early people worked hard to imagine.

Now, I find Thanksgiving is possibly the most inspiring day of the year. The first thing that inspires me is that we actually have a day set aside for thanks, and each year I make my gratitude list. This year I have more than ever to be thankful for . . . and close to the top of my list I find you, my readers.

What else is special about this holiday? Instead of opening presents, we open doors to glimpse the lovely faces of family and friends, and have the special joy of their company. I attend a favorite church service, where the American President’s annual proclamation is read, and where attendees share stories of gratitude and healing. Houses, not yet garish with the wonderful fun of Christmas, are resplendent with pumpkins and gourds, bright leaves and baskets of ripened vegetables. And so many kitchens—from estate kitchens to soup kitchens—are filled with the bustle and the aromas of the best meal of the year.

It’s a day for reaching out to friends who can’t be with family, a day for volunteering to serve food in shelters. It’s a day for taking walks, kicking through rustling leaves or holding a coat closed against a brisk wind. It’s a day for shutting down the computer and stepping away from our desks so we can flop on the couch and watch football, or cozy up for a good conversation over a cup of tea. It’s a day for cherished traditions and shared recipes, bringing the basics—food and stories—to the people in our lives.

It’s a day for using our heads—not for schedules and deadlines, but for deep reflection and real gratitude. And it’s a day for using our hearts—not to outline what we want, but to listen to how and where we might serve. It’s a day to unite head and heart so as to be able, from sheer gratitude, to find our cornucopia, to glimpse the infinite possibilities of the now, to be fully present.

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You’ve heard of “Pie in the Sky”—an idiom to convey that which is so unlikely that we shouldn’t count on it, a kind of fool’s gold, a dream only a Pollyanna would dare to dream.

Well, if Pie-In-The-Sky describes what can’t come true, perhaps “Mile High Tea” should be the new descriptor for what can. Why? Because anything Judith Briles touches actually does turn to gold. Judith was my hostess this past weekend for a gorgeous, elaborate and delightful tea at the lovely home where she and her husband, poet and editor John Maling, love to entertain.

So what do I mean by “gold”? When it comes to Dr. Judith Briles it means that which is practical and demonstrable. Her career began three decades ago when she was a stockbroker and one of the first female financial planners working with a national firm—laying the groundwork for the likes of Suze Orman. In fact, rather than continuing to work for someone else, she became an author and a speaker. Now, with twenty books to her name, and having delivered literally thousands of presentations focusing on strategies and solutions in personal and professional endeavors, Judith has success down to a science and an art.

Of course, it’s obvious she’s a “head” person. Her mind works so fast it’s a challenge to keep up. Sometimes she’s crunching numbers—something she seems to be able to do with her left hand while her right hand is making scones. Sometimes she’s pondering a client’s progress as she might a chess board, planning the next six moves in a career as steadily and deeply as a steeping pot of tea.

She’s someone who’s interested in breakthroughs—and in finding those who are ready to leap ahead. That’s why she founded Author U, which offers dynamic monthly programs for serious authors. But even before she started her organization, she kept an ear to the ground for evolved authors while keeping an eye peeled for publishing opportunities. When it comes to locating these future business partners, she certainly uses her acumen and judgment— meaning she uses her head.

But why does she do all this? This is where the heart comes in. Because when it comes down to the bottom line, there’s nothing in it for Judith. She doesn’t ask for a percentage or even for a fee, unless one is a client. She brings people together for exciting new possibilities because she believes in good books well published; she understands the power of the word; and she passionately believes that a person fulfilling his or her calling in life is a person making an important contribution to the world. She feels that if a good thing can happen, it should.

That’s why the tea Judith hosted for me wasn’t just High Tea: it was Mile High Tea in the Mile High City. Yes, guests enjoyed delicious food from cucumber sandwiches to homemade sweets, along with several varieties of hot tea poured from a private tea pot collection. And yes, guests enjoyed the stories I shared, and bought lots of books before they headed home. But a lot more than good food and stories happened that afternoon. People got a glimpse of their own possibilities. That’s what “in it” for Judith: the joy of inspiring others, and doing something special to instigate their success. She may have hosted this event for me because her head told her it would work. But the energy, resources and generosity that she expressed in giving me this gift—that came straight from the heart.

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